You probably know, anyway."
"That's just what I didn't when I got up to make my speech,"
Francis assured his friend emphatically. "The fellow was given
an opportunity of making a clean breast of it, of course--Wensley,
his lawyer, advised him to, in fact--but the story he told me
was precisely the story he told at the inquest."
They were established now in their easy-chairs, and Wilmore
summoned a waiter.
"Two large whiskies and sodas," he ordered. "Francis," he went
on, studying his companion intently, "what's the matter with you?
You don't look as though your few days in the country last week
had done you any good."
Francis glanced around as though to be sure that they were alone.
"I was all right when I came up, Andrew," he muttered. "This
case has upset me."
"Upset you? But why the dickens should it?" the other demanded,
in a puzzled tone. "It was quite an ordinary case, in its way,
and you won it."
"I won it," Francis admitted.
"Your defence was the most ingenious thing I ever heard."
"Mostly suggested, now I come to think of it," the barrister
remarked grimly, "by the prisoner himself."
"But why are you upset about it, anyway?" Wilmore persisted.
Francis rose to his feet, shook himself, and with his elbow
resting upon the mantelpiece leaned down towards his friend.
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